


Awright

by jerseydevious



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Superman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, i for one cry all the time because batman and superman are brothers and i cry, just two bros sitting in a locked car having extensive emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 19:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18105377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerseydevious/pseuds/jerseydevious
Summary: Bruce has a rough night at a benefit, ends up buying Clark dinner, and then has a rough conversation.





	Awright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [audreycritter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/gifts).



> Check the notes at the end for warnings, y'all.
> 
> This is essentially a rewrite of one of the fics I scrapped from my AO3 accidentally, Long Conversation. It has been...... rewrote.

Bruce and Clark, during a long three days where Bruce stayed on the Watchtower commlink and frantically tried to solve Kadaarkan riddles, and Clark frantically tried to appease the Kadaarkans’ test of worthiness—a maze, filled with hungry beasts that distracted Clark from the actual riddle-solving—had planned a sort of date. During the slower minutes, of course, when Clark was just flying through stone tunnels, waiting for another monster to attack, or for another puzzle door to crop up. They’d planned, at whatever coming gala Alfred had waiting on the list, for Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent to officially meet, and hit it off. Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent would hit it off so well, actually, that they’d beeline to each other at the charity function after that, and then the grand re-opening of Gotham’s refurbished library after that. By that point, no one would wonder why a Metropolis reporter would be at such a Gotham-focused function, because everyone knew Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent had hit it off. Good friends, they were, and publicly. There were a few rumors here and there but they blew over quickly. Clark Kent was a reporter with a loving marriage, and everyone in the Daily Planet bullpen would stab a rabid wolf to protect him, because he kept the plants watered and asked about everyone’s day and could talk Perry White down from any ledge. Gotham’s aristocrats cared very little about any of that. 

 

Bruce was immensely glad that they’d done it, because public appearances remained one of the things he hated most about his job—and there was plenty he hated about being Bruce Wayne. Even if he wasn’t always at Clark’s side he could look across the room in whatever direction and he could see Clark, adjusting his glasses or his tie or leaning against the wall with a battered copy of  _ All the King’s Men _ or  _ Oryx and Crake  _ or  _ The Joy Luck Club. _ He would even have his pen out, scribbling in the margins, and when he wasn’t writing with it was tucked behind his ear. But somehow, always, no matter where he turned, Clark was always there. He could cast his gaze away from any slimy politician, glitter-coated gossip, uncaring socialite, and he could find Clark, and then he could breathe again. 

 

Jackson Cuthbert, a man who made up for his height in donations to the abominable politicians who had sealed off East End from the rehousing project Bruce had been about to launch, slipped out of the crowd and headed straight towards him, holding two drinks. Jackson Cuthbert had a slight belly and was clearly unaware of it, because his suit was several sizes too small. It was just another thing in a mile-long list of things that made Bruce want to beat his teeth in. 

 

“Well, if it isn’t Bruce Wayne!” Cuthbert grinned at him, and his smile was mean like a coyote’s. “What brings you out of that dungeon of yours? Honestly, Bruce, you should think of some renovations, to liven the place up. All of that decor, it gives a man the shivers.” 

 

“I have a family of seven,” Bruce said, flatly. “My house has plenty of life.”

 

“Six? Where on Earth did you pick up another one?” Cuthbert asked, and for once, he looked genuinely surprised. He passed one crystal glass of bourbon to Bruce. “Two men like you and I, I think we need something a good deal stronger than champagne.”

 

“She needed my help,” Bruce said, taking the glass. He swirled it slowly, watching the way the tip of his leather shoe distorted in the amber. Bruce didn’t bother to point out that Steph, in all likelihood, did not see herself as his child; family was family, even if only by an undefinable cord of rope as strong as spiders’ silk. 

 

Cuthbert winked at him, a twisted grin took to his mouth. “Sure have a thing for the needy, don’t you, Bruce.”

 

Bruce directed his anger to his chest, where he held it in place so he wouldn’t crush Cuthbert’s skull, and then pulled the bourbon to his lips—and then the the lightning that had taken up residence at the very back of his brain crackled and sharpened and doubled. There was an acrid, pungent smell behind the bourbon that he knew too well. Knew too well. He knew that smell and he knew it too well. Knew too—

 

“You’ve put something in this,” Bruce said, level and lethal, and Cuthbert’s smile dropped. Bruce watched the fear creep from the rims of his eyes inward, chasing his pupils until they were twin black wounds. 

 

“Well, I  _ never— _ you’re obviously mistaken—”

 

“You tried to drug me,” Bruce said, loud enough for everyone around him to hear, because there would be witnesses for what he was about to do, and he wanted to make himself clear.

 

He grabbed Cuthbert’s glass and threw it out of his hand. Then he grabbed the back of Cuthbert’s hair, wrenched his head back, and shoved the rim of his own glass between Cuthbert’s teeth. 

 

“You’ll never try that again,” Bruce snarled. “You understand me?”

 

Cuthbert’s eyes were wide as dinner plates. Bruce tipped the glass back and burning alcohol sluiced down Cuthbert’s cheeks, his chin, down his neck—the man gargled and spit it back up, staining his two-sizes-too-small suit. He was choking on words but Bruce didn’t care enough to parse them. 

 

Bruce stepped away and threw his glass to the ground. It shattered, glass tinkling and spreading out in all directions. Bruce stalked past Cuthbert, knocking into his shoulder so hard the smaller man was knocked down, and headed towards the grand doors at the front of the hall.

 

In an instant, someone bumped into him, and Bruce jerked away only to remember that it was Clark—Clark was a gifted actor. He could hide in a crowd even when walking beside the odd man out. He had a natural, perpetually awkward slouch, the kind that made people skip over him or the kind that made people pity him. The first time Bruce had seen Clark, it had been pity; and later, when he learned precisely what emblem Clark wore beneath his coffee-stained button-up, it was nothing but clear amazement. Clark hid naturally. He hid reflexively. It was just one symptom of a life spent in hiding—and Bruce had spent years trying to disappear half as well, but he would never approach the genuine skill it took to hide a secret with thirty dollar frames and a two dollar hair comb. 

 

“How was the book.”

 

“Oh, y’know, good. Great, actually. It’s real fascinating. I’ve just gotten to the part explainin’ the differences between crocodile-line archosaurs and bird-line archosaurs, and it turns out plenty of fossils were actually misnamed, ‘cause people weren’t payin’ attention to the smaller details.”

 

They were at the door. Bruce stopped on his heel, turned, and snapped, “Are you trying to tell me something?”   
  
Clark jerked back. “‘Course not, Bruce. Are you alright?”

 

Bruce blinked at him. 

 

“What?”

 

“You said  _ aw _ right. Not  _ al _ right.”

 

“I grew up on a farm, I’m not sure what you were expecting.”

 

“I—” and Bruce’s teeth clicked together uselessly. “Nevermind. Have a good night, Clark.” Bruce turned away, all but jogging down the steps, wondering where in the hell he’d left his car. He didn’t let valets handle his cars, considering their—er _ —unique _ security features, but in his haste to get this damn benefit over with had he made an error in judgement? He knew recently that his concentration had cracked, like when water would sneak into a fissure in a windshield and then freeze—

 

“Hold on there just a second,” Clark called. Bruce could hear the clicking of his shoes as he followed. “Hold it right there!” 

 

Bruce didn’t stop peering over the rows of gleaming cars parked around the lawn. “Am I under arrest,” he said dryly. 

 

“Yeah,” Clark said. “You bet your bottom dollar you are. You went and committed a crime, just now.”

 

“Ah. And what crime did I commit?” Bruce asked. He dug his keys out of his pocket, and pressed the panic button. His Bentley shrieked from somewhere behind him. “Damn. Missed it.”

 

They set off towards the Bentley. Clark adjusted his glasses, which were sliding down his nose slowly, and said, “You forgot that you owe me dinner.”

 

Bruce flicked his hand to the massive double doors, propped open, a scene of floor-length gowns and sharp black tuxes nestled inside. “There. Dinner.” Bruce moved around to the driver’s side, jamming the key into the handle. The infuriating beeping stopped and left an empty sort of quiet behind. 

 

Clark had thrust his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels. His face was honestly sad. “Aw, Bruce,” he said. “D’ya really need to take off so quick?” 

 

_ Yes,  _ Bruce almost said.  _ Yes, because there’s a goddamn jackhammer in my back and my head feels like someone threw it in the bathtub and then tossed in the toaster.  _ He almost said,  _ yes, because I think I just made a massive mistake and now I’m starting to think I am more of a danger than I’m worth.  _ But he didn’t, just stared at Clark’s open sadness and felt a metaphorical meathook tear at the flesh just below his sternum.

 

Bruce sighed.

 

Clark grinned. “I just knew you’d come around.”

 

They slid in the car at the same time, buckled at the same time—it was incredible to Bruce that Clark still entertained the pretense of buckling at all, but it was those little things that made Bruce’s chest squeeze with fondness.  _ Brother mine,  _ if there was ever a word for it.

 

About fifteen minutes out from the Manor, Clark gestured to a Taco Whiz. “I haven’t had Taco Whiz since last month,” he said, and he laughed when Bruce groaned. Bruce pulled in and ordered him a combo, ordered a slushie for himself. When the worker answered the window his hand shook against the wheel. Bruce didn’t bother with smothering the gesture and he could feel Clark’s eyes on him, too, and it seemed there were always eyes on him, consuming him.

 

At that time of night, the parking lot was all but abandoned, and Bruce pulled the car into a spot overlooking the highway. They were just close enough for Bruce to see the license plates.

 

“Thanks,” Clark said, around a mouthful of fries. “I spy a Kentucky.”   
  


“New Jersey.” 

 

“That’s cheating, we’re in New Jersey,” Clark rubbed his mouth with a napkin. “Wonder if I’ll see a Kansas.”

 

Bruce was quiet. He raised his strawberry slushie to his lips but all he could smell was a high, sharp tang, and he slammed it back in the cupholder and gestured at Clark. “Glove compartment. Tub of lotion.”

 

Clark dropped his burger and wiped his hands with a napkin. 

 

_ “Now, _ if you don’t mind,” Bruce growled. His patience felt raw and bloody, tonight. 

 

Clark tossed him the lotion. But he didn’t say anything else, and that was how Bruce knew Clark had read him right and that Bruce wasn’t going to leave this car until Clark was satisfied with the answer he’d dug up. A memory of Cuthbert’s face, drowning, scared—the memory of Bruce’s own thrill in seeing that fear. He was constantly reprimanding Clark, telling Clark to control himself, but the truth was, Bruce was a hypocrite.

 

Bruce scooped lotion onto his hands, breathing in the deep, pine scent of it—it was Christmas lotion, because Christmas lotion always seemed to be the most overpowering. Brought him to happier memories, with Alfred, with his kids. Nearly headache-inducing in its intensity. He bought a jar every year, to keep with him, his own macabre Christmas gift to himself. It was February, now, and he could see through the bottom of the jar the way he could see through a crystal glass of bourbon. 

 

“You know I’m going to ask,” Clark said, quietly. 

 

“Fine,” Bruce said. “But I have two. First.”

 

“Shoot.”

 

“Why were you there tonight. It wasn’t a benefit the Planet would cover, and I don’t recall sharing it with you.”

 

Clark tilted his head. “It was Alfred. He says you’ve stopped eating. He wanted me to talk sense into you.”

 

Bruce grabbed the lever on the side of the chair and leaned it back, and the throbbing pain in his spine started to ease. Now that he thought about it, his stomach did feel empty, hollowed out. The world, faint and far away. Drifting. Drifting away from the subtle drag of sweaty fingers over ridges of scars, drifting. “Of course it was.”

 

“I need you to answer this honestly, alright?” Clark said, balling up his foil burger wrap and dropping it in the bag. “What’s wrong?”   
  


Bruce closed his eyes and settled his arms over his stomach. “Has that ever worked?”

 

“No. But it’s a new year, I’m willing to try.”

 

Bruce barked a laugh. “Do I have to comply?”

 

Clark nodded grimly, his good humor gone like dew in the sun. “I want you to.”

 

“But I don’t have to.”

 

“Bruce, please.”   
  


Bruce rolled his head back until his neck popped. “My second question,” he said. “You say  _ aw _ right. Instead of  _ al _ right. You’ve lived in Metropolis long enough to have beaten that accent out. You haven’t. Why?”

 

“That’s… a question,” Clark said, slowly. “I don’t suppose I’ve ever thought about it. Why do you ask?”   
  


“Just humor me.”   
  


Clark rubbed the back of his head, brows furrowed. That was something Bruce appreciated, that Clark always took a question seriously; he followed knowledge upstream, could never let a thing lie. They stayed in silence together for several minutes before Clark said, “I guess I feel comfortable ‘round you. You’re—you’re like a brother to me. You’re family. And that’s how I talk, ‘round family.”

 

Bruce closed his eyes against the hot swell of emotion in his chest. “Hn,” he said, and the sound was horrifically strangled. 

 

They lapsed into another long silence, one that Bruce had not been intending to break; but his chest had kept on burning, in the way that was slowly crawling up his throat. He ended up saying, “I didn’t,” in a whisper before he knew that his mouth was even moving. 

 

He felt Clark’s eyes on him. He was very deliberately not looking at Clark. He was not sure he could look at Clark ever again. He cupped his face with his hands, breathing in the smell—better that smell, than the sweet, flowery smell, the smell of sweat and sex, a mouth against his, a  _ forgive me, beloved _ and why had she apologized, why had she apologized and then—

 

“I didn’t _ —agree _ to have Damian,” Bruce said. His voice was audible only to Superman. 

 

There was a rush of air from Clark. “I know you didn’t know about Damian. You can’t keep beating yourself up over that, that was not your fault.”

 

“That,” Bruce said, “is not what I meant.”   
  


The car was dangerously quiet. 

 

“You’re—you’re saying,” Clark stammered. He tried to say something else but it was, at most, a wordless, warped noise, the whine of steel on steel.

 

Bruce kept his face hidden for as long as he could stand it, but eventually his own curiosity, his burning need to see the condemnation on Clark’s face—call it masochism—won out. When he dropped his hands into his lap, the first thing he saw wasn’t Clark’s hatred, but his shoulders; he was slumped over in the passenger’s seat, curled up, unbelievably small-looking. 

 

Eventually Clark straightened, rubbed at his eyes, and said, “I love you. I know you know that.”

 

“Yes,” Bruce rasped, because it was true. Love lived in everything Clark did; Bruce was no exception. Superman did not stop being Superman when the sun went down, or the lights went out, or the cape was folded up—he was a force of loving nature. Even here, in Bruce’s passenger seat, looking for all the world like he’d just been hit with a truck, Superman was still Superman. A force of nature.  

 

“You’re probably ‘bout ready for me to leave, ain’t you.”

 

“Yes,” Bruce said again, stronger this time. 

 

Clark nodded. “Yeah. I’ll give you that. But go home knowin’ that you’re a brother to me, alright? And—it’s done  _ to _ you, not  _ because of _ you. You need to know that.”

 

Bruce nodded. He tried to move his jaw and it worked but none of the soft tissue beneath it did, it just hung there, limp, dead, drugged. 

 

Clark watched him carefully. After a moment he swallowed, throat bobbing, and said, “When you need to talk to me—well, you—you know what number to call. After a while, Bruce.”

  
And then Clark was gone, in an unassuming gust of wind, and Bruce was left staring at the Bentley’s ceiling. He couldn’t count the hours he stayed there, his mind catching and turning over the  _ when. _ No  _ if, _ just a  _ when, _ so certain that it was tossed out thoughtlessly. And if Bruce drove home that morning, managed to eat a few bites of egg before crashing—and if he kept thinking about  _ when, _ and if he picked up the phone to ask, well. That would be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: discussion of rape, vague memories of rape. Nothing explicit, just vague stuff. 
> 
> Anyway! I hope you guys enjoyed.


End file.
